


Forging New Bonds

by Moria



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, M/M, Sex in a Smithy, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moria/pseuds/Moria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor, newcomer to Mithrim, requests the use of the smithy from Eöl. But after learning of Fëanor's deeds in Alqualondë, Eöl refuses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forging New Bonds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> For AmyFortuna. It was a great delight writing this for you! Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Dawn Felagund!

Wearing the smile required of him, Fëanor bowed before the guards. As he requested to speak with the lord of Mithrim, Fëanor secretly prided himself on mastering the Sindarin tongue so quickly that the words slipped past his lips with the same ease as they did for the native Sindar, who had struggled to master his own mother tongue. 

“Lord Morchanar awaits you,” one guard informed him, and he was led inside. 

As much as it displeased him, again Fëanor bowed before Lord Morchanar. 

He required alliance with the Sindar. The lands were unknown to him, and his sons and followers had limited provisions. Morchanar had been helpful in offering land to them with no expectation for anything in return. Upon hearing of Morgoth’s deeds in the western lands, he seemed willing to accept any alliance with Fëanor. But Lord Morchanar was also maddeningly patient, to the point he appeared as a tree, willing to abide while the terrible peaks of the Iron Mountains jutted in the distance and black smoke shadowed the horizon. His army had allegedly kept foes from crossing further south, but Fëanor could not tarry.

Throughout their conversation, his eyes kept straying to a single smithy situated in the vast courtyard of the enclosed kingdom. It stood center of the markets as if it was the pride of its people. Smoke issued from the chimney and firelight flickered within the windows. A longing ached in Fëanor's chest for days gone by, of the play of forge-light on bare, ruddy arms, and of a greater need.

“Do you take commissions for weapons?” he asked Lord Morchanar. 

“That you would need to ask the blacksmith himself,” Lord Morchanar replied. “He is my brother, and … ah, rather his own leader. His true home is south, in Doriath, but I have commissioned him for some work here for the time being, but only for my people. You will have to speak to him yourself.”

“His name?” 

“Eöl.” 

Fëanor repeated the name, his eyebrows knitted in confusion.

Lord Morchanar smirked. “He alone of my family has kept his old name of our father’s tribe when we came west from Cuiviénen.”

“Ah.” 

When their meeting had ended, the guards began to lead Fëanor back to the gates, but he stopped them and requested to speak with the blacksmith. They changed their course without comment and led him toward the smithy. He passed open kitchens with women kneading dough or working on their looms, all relying on the fortress built around them to protect them from the threat of the great mountains north. 

As Fëanor approached, the blacksmith stepped out to gather some wood for his forge. Eöl was tall, though stooped, the mark of a man having spent a great deal of time hunched over the anvil. He glanced up the moment he sensed Fëanor’s presence, his eyes narrowed, already seeing that Fëanor was a foreigner in this land. But there was also interest, as if he could sense Fëanor’s vocation by merely studying him from where he stood.

Fëanor himself was intrigued by the sharp intelligence he could perceive within the man’s eyes. His face was sharply carved, his nose aquiline, his eyes almond-shaped and dark and piercing. 

“Well met, Eöl,” Fëanor said. He completed his greeting with a proper bow and gave his name and title. 

Eöl’s eyes drew narrower. “Why have you come here?” 

“Ah … I have a little request I came to ask of you, if you would hear me. Your brother Lord Morchanar perceived it best for me to speak with you personally.” 

Eöl nodded, approving of his brother’s decision. “What is your request, Lord Fëanor?” 

His words traveled like cool fingertips teasing up the back of Fëanor’s neck. Stationed right outside the door of the smithy, Fëanor had a good view of within; his eyes darted to the swords and shields displayed along the high wall, and his breath caught in his throat. 

“My people and I are in desperate need for weapons, and your alliance,” Fëanor said. He indicated to the weapons on display. “These swords have been wrought with the finest craftsmanship I have ever beheld.” 

“I have forged everything you see before you,” Eöl said. His tone was simple and mild, but Fëanor drew himself closer, choosing his next words with utmost care. 

“You alone? Your work is _incredible_! I too am a blacksmith, second only to Aulë in the Blessed Realm. Much it pains me to have left my home, to seek he who has murdered my father and brought destruction to our land. I hear his evil threatens Mithrim. Perhaps, if you are willing, you will allow me to use your forge, or if you would not object, fashion a few weapons so my sons may better arm themselves against Morgoth.”

Eöl listened to his tale, the compassion in his eyes as understated as everything else. Fëanor saw pain flicker in his eyes at the mention of his father’s death and knew he was not far from gaining Eöl’s friendship. His gaze was locked into Fëanor’s for the entirety of his tale, and as Fëanor reached the end and leaned back, Eöl leaned closer. Fëanor’s breath caught in his throat again, smelling the charcoal and sweat off Eöl and missing both the forge and the intimacy he had not enjoyed with Nerdanel for many years. 

“But you are a kinslayer.” 

The hard coldness of Eöl’s voice pierced through Fëanor. Confused, he looked up, trying to understand, but Eöl’s face was unfathomable as he continued studying Fëanor. “Surely you know that I have skills of which you know naught, Noldo? My kinfolk in lands far across the sea you have killed with your own hands, and here you stand now begging more weapons from me! How would I know you will not then take to slay me or my kin on these lands?”

Fëanor did not move from his place, too stunned to speak. 

Eöl’s smile was unbearably smug. “Is my brother aware of your deeds?”

Again Fëanor did not respond, though he returned Eöl’s dark glare, silently warning him not to utter one word of Alqualondë to Lord Morchanar. 

“Get out,” Eöl hissed through clenched teeth. “Get out of my forge, filth, lest I decide to avenge my kin right this moment!” 

Fëanor took a step back. It was unlike him to not respond in kind, but he was vulnerable against Eöl in that moment, for he had purposely come to Lord Morchanar weaponless as a sign of trust. He did not dare attempt to lunge for one of the swords, not knowing how fast Eöl was. Just out of earshot lingered the Sindarin guards, who would undoubtedly side with Eöl in a heartbeat against the foreigner with blood on his hands. 

Neither, he realized, did he wish to fight nor kill the other man, for Eöl was, if anything, an enigma only enticing Fëanor's curiosity further. He did not wish to risk his relationship with Lord Morchanar through a conflict with Eöl. But as the play of firelight on the swords on the wall caught his glance, he found himself regarding even more highly, and inexplicably, the lord's brother. 

Fëanor curled his lip in contempt and bowed before leaving, but it was not without a silent promise to himself that he would return. The next morning he sent out a messenger with a small gift to be given to Eöl. From the moment after reaching his sons, Fëanor had spent the night whittling away until the traditional Noldorin token of friendship had been completed. 

It was returned to him the next day, broken into two and burned at the edges. He thought of the swan ships and snarled, alarmed at how deep into his own thoughts the other could perceive with a mere glance into his eyes. The following day he passed Eöl, a rare sight in the halls of his brother. He was removing his apron, and Fëanor caught sight of the sweat on his toned, slender body. He passed Fëanor as if he did not recognize him; the dismissal was enough to stir wrath inside Fëanor. 

Tempted as he was to grab Eöl by the shoulders and shake him into complicity, he reeled back. There had to be another means. 

The following morning when he awoke to find one of his sons too ill to leave his bed, he rushed to the healers of Mithrim. But before the Mithrim healer could propose a remedy, Eöl approached and slipped something into Fëanor’s palm. 

“Poisoned by a local plant, it seems,” he said. “Happened to a niece once. He will be fine after taking this.” 

The healer glanced at the vial in Fëanor’s hand and nodded her head in agreement. Eöl’s smirk was smug but not wholly cold.

*

“We cannot continue this animosity,” Fëanor said. He had returned to Eöl’s smithy the following evening. The remedy had worked within an hour, and his son had slept well, having returned to full health by the time he awoke. “My deeds in Alqualondë … there is more to the tale than you know.”

“I saw through your vision.” Eöl spoke without breaking concentration on his work. The fingers gripping the long shaft of the hammer were strong, slender as they were. A few moments passed with the strikes of hammer against sword ricocheting off the walls, then setting the sword aside, Eöl struck the bare anvil a few times before setting the hammer to cool. The whole time Fëanor kept his eyes off him; his own hands were occupied with a small metal-forged pinecone. A dozen of them had been made, so perfect and delicate and well-detailed that before he had picked one up, Fëanor had mistaken them to be the real thing. In his hands, the pinecone settled comfortably, and the tiny scales captured light from the furnace and glittered like red starlight. The surface, so smooth to the touch, stole Fëanor’s breath, who saw that the same care was given to them as to the growing collection of swords on the walls. 

Fëanor rolled one pinecone around slowly in his hand, testing its strength, his fingernails tapping against the surface matching with each strike of hammer. 

“You do not hate me,” Fëanor said. “You cannot … you could have let my son die. Why?” 

“Despise you as I do, I would not ever resort to your level, _kinslayer_.” Eöl threw his head back, casting his hair away from his face to better regard Fëanor through narrowed eyes. 

Fëanor cocked an eyebrow, but when Eöl returned to his work without answering Fëanor’s silent question, he slipped closer. Gripping one of Eöl’s shoulders, he brought the pinecone before his eyes. 

“Who are the recipients of such fine work, may I ask?” 

“A number of the children in Mithrim.” 

“Your niece included?” 

“Yes.” 

“I request one for my youngest son, the one you saved from death. Though he is no child, I know he will cherish this gift. This is very fine work.” 

“They are not for kinslayers.” 

Quick as a storm, Fëanor cast aside the pinecone and gripped Eöl around his middle as he held up a blade against his throat. It was one of Eöl’s own knives, which Fëanor had taken while the blacksmith’s back had been turned, for otherwise Fëanor was not allowed any weapons in Lord Morchanar’s lands. 

“Speak not of me with those words, filthy Avar,” he threatened. 

Eöl chuckled, his neck pressed against the blade of Fëanor’s knife. “Rich for you to say that, using such sickening terms in the Lord Morchanar’s lands. And to steal from my own smithy.”

Fëanor’s nostrils flared as rage, desperation, and need filled him. Patience was fast leaving him, and he would no longer tolerate the other man’s rebuff. He shifted to close to space between them and grazed his teeth over dark skin, tasting the salty skin before biting down, hard, and grinning to himself when he heard Eöl hiss and felt him push back against him, followed by a low chuckle. Fëanor paused as realization hit him. 

“The pinecones, the swords on display, the medicine … you’ve been enticing me closer to you,” he whispered in Eöl’s ear. 

“Do you not think I will require something in return, if I am to help you?” The words, like fingers trailing low down his side, teasing and inviting. Fëanor’s heart sped with the thought, the excitement, that Eöl equally desired him. A quick glance confirmed that the door of the smithy was locked. 

“Fair enough, and what I am about to offer may be enjoyable for us both.” 

Another low chuckle. “It appears it may.”

“You shall accept my offer, then?” Leaning closer, he planted a few tentative kisses along Eöl’s pointed ear. In his arms, Eöl shuddered. 

“What if it is not to my liking?” Eöl asked in as hard of a tone as he could muster. 

“You will take what I give you, Avar, or suffer for your greed!” 

To prove his point, Fëanor’s loosened his grip around Eöl’s waist, ghosting his hand over the tent just beginning to form in Eöl's apron, circling, his fingers slowly getting close enough to touch. He sensed Eöl thrust his hips ever slightly forward, seeking his hand, and quickly he brought his hand back up. Eöl’s breathing hitched, and Fëanor leaned forward, biting hard on his shoulder. 

He kept the blade against Eöl’s neck as sweat pooled about the edge as Fëanor’s kisses, teases, the occasional brush of his hips against Eöl went on. Fëanor took in Eöl’s scent, the mix of charcoal and wood, and tasted the salty sweat. His own heart was hammering, his hair sticking to the back of his neck. The forge stood near them, and though the smithy was hot before, now the heat was near suffocating while wearing these clothes. 

Casting the blade aside, he leaned Eöl back with one arm. Under firelight and in the shimmer of heat, his dark skin glistened and his eyes glimmered with his _fëa_ : a light untamed and proud. A grin briefly crossed Fëanor’s face. He captured Eöl’s lips hungrily, tasting the smithy and power in the other man. Eöl’s own desire matched his, kissing him back as hungrily. 

Then hands gripped Fëanor’s arm as Eöl adjusted himself, standing up against Fëanor. Slender fingers roamed over Fëanor’s frame, mercifully relieving him of his clothes. 

Fingernails grazed over his naked chest, tracing a line around his nipples, up to his jawline. 

“Your body is like silver,” Eöl said softly, mesmerized. He met Fëanor’s eyes for a moment and smiled. “You would look quite well wearing galvorn…”

Before Fëanor could ask, Eöl’s fingernails dug into his shoulder. In retaliation, Fëanor closed his hand around the other’s neck. 

“I will not be the one wearing marks of ownership on my body, Avar.” 

Roughly Fëanor shoved Eöl over the large anvil. 

“Fair enough,” Eöl’s smooth voice drawled. Obediently, he bent over, allowing Fëanor to remove his apron and breeches and boots till he was bent completely bare in the hot smithy. 

The sword was still in the furnace, but Fëanor first gingerly picked up the hammer, giving it a strike against the anvil just an inch away from Eöl. Eöl gave a sharp intake of breath, and Fëanor brought it against the other’s skin, tracing Eöl’s strong shoulder blade and down a glistened spine, making gentle movements as if striking the hammer against Eöl’s body. He grew a little rougher when he reached Eöl’s buttocks, not enough to cause too much pain, but enough for the other’s soft moans to hitch into a gasp. 

The hammer slipped lower till it reached his entrance, and Eöl bucked. 

“No,” he gasped. “Please.” 

Smiling wickedly, Fëanor teased the head of the hammer against Eöl’s entrance, threatening to strike, but Eöl kept still. He could nearly hear the other’s heart pounding, and Eöl’s cock was hard and stiff, the tip already leaking with tiny pearly droplets trickling onto the anvil. 

Fëanor had to fight the urge not to turn Eöl over and fuck him hard and fast, dry, right there. His own cock was stiff and had been from the moment he'd held the blade against Eöl’s neck, had finally touched the body that teased and taunted his dreams since their first meeting. 

“The sword,” Fëanor said simply, turning his attention to the furnace. 

Fëanor could feel Eöl’s eyes on him as he picked up the tongs and removed the sword, his hitching, heavy breathing loud in Fëanor’s ear. Fëanor grinned at Eöl. 

“Think I will run this through you, Avar?” Fëanor said, showing Eöl the vividly red sword. “I am almost tempted to. You know I am a madman. Ah, but no, I will not be cruel to you. At least … not in this way.” 

Instead he rested the sword right beside Eöl, whose eyes flashed dangerously, and Fëanor laughed again as he struck the surface with the hammer. 

“I have not damaged your work, which is incredibly beautiful, as well as you are, yourself,” he said, answering Eöl’s unspoken question. 

Eöl began shaking as Fëanor struck the metal so close to him, undoubtedly concerned of the blade slipping and cutting him. But it had the desired effect; each strike aroused Eöl further, his eyes locked on Fëanor and his sword. 

As the sword was submerged in the water quench, Fëanor stole a peek at how hard Eöl’s cock had become, wondering if he would manage to make the other climax without touching him. There would not be fun for Fëanor himself if that were to happen, but he wanted to push Eöl just a little more, just to punish him for his earlier behavior.

The red cooled down to the sword’s original color, revealing a smooth surface. Grabbing it by the hilt, he pulled it out and admired the result. 

“I could kiss you for your brilliance,” Fëanor said. He ran two fingers up the shaft, releasing a soft moan. “Your swords are unmatched by any other than my own. Do you feel just how smooth it is?” And without warning he traced down Eöl’s quivering back with the tip of the long blade. Eöl’s shuddered and gasped, throwing his head back a little and squirming away from the blade. 

“It is so smooth, so perfect,” Fëanor continued. He brought his other hand to caress one buttock as he continued to stroke the sword against Eöl. “One of my sons would find much use for it.” 

“He can have it,” Eöl spat. “If he minds not having the mark of Lord Morchanar on it!” 

Fëanor made a short content sound and set the sword aside. He kissed around Eöl’s buttock while his other hand caressed and kneaded the other cheek. Eöl gasped out, and Fëanor repeated, moving lower. He licked his own fingers to slip inside Eöl, coating him just enough to hurt but not damage. 

He was close enough to smell the metallic scent of the anvil and see Eöl’s semen dripping from the edge. He inched closer and kissed his testicles, biting down in the gentlest way. Eöl nearly came, but Fëanor moved back. 

_Not until I’ve had you completely_ , he promised silently. 

He helped Eöl onto his back, then quickly dipped his head again to capture Eöl’s cock in his mouth. Eöl was too far along to allow Fëanor a chance to enjoy him for long, though the taste was wonderful in how it filled him. Fëanor suckled him a few times before moving his head back, keeping the semen in his mouth, then slowly spreading it around Eöl’s torso as he kissed his way up Eöl’s awaiting mouth. 

The kiss was every bit as desperate and hungry as Fëanor anticipated. Eöl gripped his arms, pulling him closer in his need. His hips rocked up to brush against Fëanor’s cock, and when Fëanor shifted away, Eöl grabbed him, stroking him with such desperate speed that Fëanor thought he would lose himself. He bit one of Eöl’s earlobes until the elf stopped. 

“I have not forgotten you,” Fëanor said, grinning. 

Eöl leered back. Fëanor grabbed one leg and hoisted it above his shoulder, plunging himself deep into Eöl with one movement. He was glad to see the other elf enjoy taking it as hard and rough as Fëanor was going to give him. 

The anvil was large, but not nearly large enough for them both. Eöl’s arms went back and grabbed onto the workbench behind him for support as Fëanor fucked him with a speed that would have broken the old workbench had they done their deed there.

Fëanor's eyes were glued to the spot where their bodies joined, Noldo and Avar, and he lost all thought of where they were. When he looked up at Eöl, he saw Eöl’s wicked, triumphant grin and had to return it, realizing how much the days, their animosity, leading up to this moment was worth it. To show his affection, Fëanor leaned closer in and bit Eöl’s lower lip before capturing him for a deep kiss, his body driving inside deeper, deeper, until Eöl’s cries filled his mouth with his shuddering climax. Soon after Fëanor followed, filling Eöl with his seed. 

In a rare show of soft affection, Fëanor held Eöl as he recovered, brushing soft kisses on places he had bitten or bruised earlier, then held him in an embrace. At some point, they had slid off the anvil, perhaps chuckling, perhaps swearing at one another as though they were old friends. 

When Fëanor’s heart had calmed back to a steady rhythm, he found himself more content than he had been since coming to Endor. The prospect and dangers of what lay outside this smithy suddenly seemed manageable. 

As if to cement his feelings, Eöl stood up from the ground, making his way to the sink. Fëanor watched him scrub himself before slipping back into his work clothes, then returning to Fëanor with a smirk. 

“Why are you still sitting there?” he said, his dark eyes shining bright. “Get washed, and pick up a hammer, or I will cast you out again!”


End file.
